


But Droids Don't Get Sick!

by ikolism



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikolism/pseuds/ikolism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"BB-8 gets a virus/whatever the robot equivalent of being ill is for the first time, and her droid dads react to having a sick child."</p>
<p>Fulfilling a prompt from up1701steps-legend-of-bird-mom on tumblr!~</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Droids Don't Get Sick!

The droid technicians’ bay was always quiet at night. The hustle and bustle and beeping of organics and droids alike died down alongside the sunlight of D’Qar, and the tech room, like the rest of the Resistance base, experienced an odd sort of silence. Not _true_ silence, for any active military base does not really know the concept of rest, but a gentle lull in regular activity – a quiet not defined, necessarily, by the _absence_ of sound, but rather the consistency of it. Machines whirr, consoles beep, officers murmur secrets and strategies alike – none interrupted by the harsh scream of a too-battered starfighter swinging into a shaky landing, or the boisterous yells of a squadron newly-deployed. Everything is background noise, everyone has adjusted, and that is the simple truth of things.

A simple truth now interrupted, quite jarringly, by the frenzied beeping of a notably spherical astromech, and the verbal return-fire of the protocol droid standing, exasperated, over it.

“Sick? What do you mean you’re _sick_?” The question, borne of genuine confusion, is responded to only by a slow, enunciated beeping from the smaller droid. “I _did_ hear you the first time but, by all accounts, it doesn’t make sense. We are droids, Beebee-Ate – we cannot _get_ sick.”  

The astromech – BB-8 – chirped defiantly at the protocol droid’s words, heading swiftly for the doorway at the other end of the technician bay, head lowered in what could only be interpreted as some sort of utter determination.

“Well, I don’t know what you could possibly be getting _him_ for – he repairs _starships_ , not _droids_. You come back here! He’s resting, you very well know that!” The protocol droid shuffled after the errant BB-8, inwardly cursing his servomotors for their own limited mobility. He really wasn’t built for this; the multitude of wars were enough, but this? What Master Poe so affectionately (jokingly, he insisted) called _parenting_? Much too much. He could barely keep up with his _counterpart_ at the best of times – throwing a new-model astromech droid into the mix was no more than a cruel joke to his already-battered, century-old joints. He gave a polite nod to a harried-looking junior officer he passed, who looked up in simultaneous surprise and wonder at the rapidly-retreating veteran, barely able to stammer a quick, sharp “sir!” before the golden protocol droid turned the corner and disappeared from view.

~*~

When, finally, he arrived at his destination – a dissatisfactory 1.89 seconds slower than expected – his target was already deep in conversation. The protocol droid stood, almost awkwardly, in the doorway, and listened in to the binary conversation, his internal processors (and recently modified TranLang III communications module) working hard to keep up with the fast-paced chittering emitting from deeper within the room.

[[ SICK? YOU’RE _SICK_? YOU’VE BEEN TO THE TECH BAY, RIGHT? ]]

The doorway-dwelling droid recognised those beeps immediately – he would _anywhere_ – and shifted slightly to get a better view of the room (a rarely-used old meeting space, thick with dust and littered with spare mechanical parts, their purpose simply unknown), and the distinctly-shaped, notably larger, astromech who resided there. The battered hull and bright colouring were unmistakable in their uniqueness – R2-D2, veteran of the Clone Wars, the Rebellion, and a terrible little nuisance of a droid. A sheet was pooled around the droid’s treads – normally utilised to protect his mechanical workings from the humidity of D’Qar’s atmosphere whilst in stasis – and a power cord was secured firmly to a port in his side. _Still recharging, then,_ the protocol droid mused. _Would’ve thought he’d had enough of that by now._ As he observed the astromech – recently cleaned up, blue and white durasteel shell shining as though fresh off the production line – its dome suddenly swung towards him, photoreceptor seeking him out amidst the gloom.

[[ C-3PO! ]] came the surprised, and far from disappointed, cry. [[ YOU LOOK ABSOLUTELY _TERRIBLE_. HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE YOUR LAST RECHARGE? ]]   

The golden protocol unit – C-3PO – scoffed, finally shuffling into view (a soft chirp met his sudden appearance, emitted from the white-and-orange sphere of a droid now rolling as discreetly as possible behind its older counterpart) and heading to the make-shift recharge station set up in the corner of the room. He lightly cuffed the astromech’s dome with the back of a hand. “Not all of us have the luxury of sleeping our way through the last thirty years. _Some_ of us have been _working_ , as I have just been doing – and would still be, were it not for our little friend’s supposed predicament.”

[[ YES. HE SAYS HE’S SICK. I ASSUME HE’S BEEN TO SEE _YOU_ FIRST. ]]

“Naturally. I can’t say I believe him, though. I suspect it may just be no more than a ruse, for Beebee-Ate to shirk his duties yet again and spend the day bothering Master Poe.” C-3PO tutted, but there was a distinct warmth in his mechanical voice, that belied the concern he truly felt.

A warmth, of course, that BB-8 entirely missed, as it rolled out from behind R2-D2 and started off in a furious tirade of beeps and angry blats, spherical body rocking from side to side as it unleashed an indignant fury that might’ve almost been intimidating were it not interrupted continually by brief bursts of static and sensory-overloading pops. After few short moments, the little droid seemed to tire itself out, its chittering fading gradually until it simply gave a soft little sigh and hung its head – defeated, without a single retaliation from the opposing side.

“You’ll run your power reserves right down if you continue on like _that_ ,” C-3PO stated, matter-of-factly, tipping his golden head forward. “But—I do see what you mean.”

R2-D2 swivelled his dome from side to side, first scanning BB-8, then C-3PO, in quick succession. He warbled a disgruntlement, then spoke up: [[ YOU ACTUALLY UNDERSTOOD ALL THAT? I’M NOT AS WELL-VERSED IN BINARY AS I INITIALLY THOUGHT. ]]

“Of course not – you’ve missed out on two whole generations of it,” C-3PO said haughtily, making no attempt to mask exactly what he thought of R2’s prolonged inactivity, but moving on quickly from the topic before they could dissolve the issue at hand into yet another one of their long-lived arguments, “nevertheless, it was not so much _what_ Beebee-Ate said that concerns me, but rather… _how_ it was said.”

[[ THERE’S A DIFFERENCE? TRUST YOU TO NOTICE THAT, YOU GLORIFIED DICTIONARY. ]]

“And trust _you_ to miss it completely, you rusted excuse for a mechanic,” C-3PO retorted, servomotors whirring softly as he straightened up and made a sound that, if he were organic, would indicate the clearing of a throat, but in this case was merely a replication of typical humanoid behaviour. “Beebee-Ate is not _sick_ , per se. He’s infected.”

At this, BB-8 gave an affirmative (but somewhat alarmed) squeak.

[[ I’M NO MEDICAL DROID, BUT IS INFECTION NOT USUALLY A PRECURSOR TO SICKNESS? HE WASN’T EXACTLY _WRONG_ IN THE INITIAL ASSESSMENT. ]]

“Well, no, but I am terribly pedantic at the best of times, am I not?” At this, R2-D2 gave a soft, surprised beep – C-3PO was hardly one to admit his own flaws – but his suspicions were quickly confirmed with a crude diagnostic scan. A humility circuit. Of course. “It is not an illness in its traditional sense – but rather, a virus,” C-3PO paused for a moment, then quickly amended, “a _computer_ virus.”  

[[ THEY HAVE THOSE NOW? FOR ASTROMECHS? ]]

“Yes, can you believe it? Your sort have actually become _useful_ recently, and that undoubtedly makes you all a target. I’ve heard whispers of these infections, but I hardly expected one of our own to experience it. Tell me, Beebee-Ate, what is it like? Can you feel its coding? Is it at all _advanced_? How is it affecting you? Oh, I so would like to run a diagnostic on this—“ his tirade was interrupted by an indignant screech from the spherical droid, who was now revolving in circles in front of them, movements becoming increasingly frantic. “Oh. Yes, of course. Deal with the problem first, report on the situation afterwards. Splendid idea. Come along, then!”

C-3PO started to move from the room, but paused in his exit when he heard a clattering behind him. Turning on his heel, he watched, rather amusedly, as R2-D2 struggled to unhook the power cord from his side – having gotten it tangled amidst the mess he often referred to as “important technical business, vital to Resistance operations, no, don’t touch that, please stop moving my stuff.” He would’ve smirked if his faceplate had allowed it, but instead opted to move forward and assist the snared droid. BB-8, to its credit, was currently headbutting a partially-shredded TIE fighter panel (where in the Maker’s name had R2 _gotten_ that?) out of the way of the proceedings.

As C-3PO pulled the last of the cord free and unhooked it from R2-D2’s panelling (running his fingers lightly down the durasteel, sliding the data port covering shut) he pressed a metallic hand against the astromech’s dome. It was brief, fleeting, but as R2 turned and their photoreceptors regarded one another, a wordless understanding passed between them. C-3PO could not go a day without reassuring himself of his counterpart’s presence, of his continued existence, of his return to the place he belonged – by the protocol droid’s side. He had been gone too long, and bicker about it though they might, it was still a simple truth - one that R2-D2 understood wholly.

The moment passed. Trailed by their wayward charge – now regularly spitting bursts of static from its communication module, and descending ever-faster into a mechanical sort of aphasia – they headed swiftly for the droid technician bay once more.

~*~

“I _am_ pressing the button!” C-3PO barked, his thumb pushing firmly on the mechanism in question. “It’s not functioning properly—no, there’s no message on the screen. I know very well how to work my own systems, thank you.”

[[ A MANUAL CRANIAL RESET IT IS, THEN. ]]

BB-8 squealed loudly at the implication, its inner workings screeching in protest as it shot across the room, as far as possible from the other droid, who only emitted a series of beeps not unlike laughter at the reaction.

“Don’t frighten him like that, you old brute. Help me figure this out, at the very least – you can plug yourself into that data port over there. You’ll find I’ve already taken the liberty of uploading the appropriate security bypasses into your systems-interfacing module.” He paused a moment, lifting his hand from the functionless button and reaching for a datapad that had been set aside almost haphazardly. “No need to thank me.”

[[ OH. GOOD. WASN’T PLANNING ON IT. ]] R2-D2 dissolved into another bout of binary laughter, but headed for the data port as instructed. As he reached it, appropriate computer interface arm extended forthright, he hesitated. After a quick, reassuring scan of the system before him, and a solid deduction that no, this port was certainly _not_ a power socket, he plugged himself in, and was quickly lost in the code that laid itself before him.

C-3PO watched him work for a moment, then turned himself back to the datapad he grasped in his hands. “Beebee-Ate, I fear we have overlooked some vital information in the midst of all this – how, exactly, did you come about this virus?” He raised his head, observing the still-cowering droid, ducked behind a workbench at the furthest end of the room.

After a few seconds of soft, nervous beeping, BB-8 rolled forward, approaching the protocol droid (and giving the older astromech a wide berth, C-3PO noted.) What followed was a series of chirps, beeps and mechanical whines so quick in succession that for a moment the taller droid was overcome with the unpleasant sensation of data overload as his systems struggled to process and translate the rapid-fire explanation. He noted, absentmindedly, that the faster BB-8 spoke, the less static perforated its words – a theory compounded by the fact that as the spherical droid trailed off from its harried declaration, its communications module was suddenly overtaken by a violent, screeching burst of white noise – surprising both of them (even R2-D2, pulled momentarily from his data-scan, seemed to flinch at the auditory assault) and sending the smaller droid into an even more terrified wobble as it began pacing the length of the room.

After a moment, suitably recovered from the astromech’s outburst, C-3PO launched into a tirade that, if any of his organic companions had been present to hear, he would simply never hear the end of. “An unknown _system_? Oh, you little…! I’ve always said to Artoo – never trust a strange computer; don’t go plugging yourself into any old data port! But does he listen? No! No, of course not! And it is always I who is left to pick up the pieces and wheel him back to our base as no more than a smoking shell. He never learns, and I see you share that trait. Is it simply an astromechs’ inclination to blunder foolishly into the unknown, unheeding of the risks?! Now look at you—malfunctioning, barely able to speak a sentence without assaulting the auditory processing of everyone around you! Was it worth it? No, I dare say it was not! Not one bit! I swear I had taught you better than that, Beebee-Ate – and if not I, then your own Master Poe. I dare not even mention _Artoo_ in this – we both know I haven’t trusted him with the responsibility of imparting knowledge since the last time I caught him offloading his database of vulgarities into your previously untainted memory core. Honestly, the two of you are nothing short of a double act – however can I hope to complete my duties within this base whilst I am juggling the two of you between my hands?! I ought to— I _ought_ to--…” He faltered suddenly, then let out a sound that, if he had breath to exhale, would’ve been a sigh. He lifted his head, photoreceptors scanning the still form of BB-8, who now settled before him, wobbling gently, but cowed into submission and relative calm. “You’re young,” he said, simply. “You’ll learn.”

After a long moment of silence – permeated only by the soft warbling of BB-8 as its infected systems fought against its cogitative theory unit, struggling to contain yet another static outburst – R2-D2 suddenly beeped in success, his computer-interfacing arm retracting from the data port and sliding smoothly back within himself. C-3PO and BB-8 both turned to stare at him, a question communicated in their stances as they held their figurative breath for the news.

[[ I RAN A DIAGNOSTIC ON THE SYSTEMS, AND NOT ONLY FOUND THE SOURCE OF THE VIRUS, BUT A SOLUTION TOO. WHILE YOU WERE ARGUING-- ]] R2-D2 swivelled his dome round, photoreceptors zeroing in on C-3PO accusingly [[ -- I FORMULATED A SUBROUTINE THAT COULD PROBABLY DISMANTLE THE CODE IF GIVEN ENOUGH TIME. ]]

“Marvellous, R2-D2! Simply marvellous! I knew we could count on you! But—enough time? How long, exactly?” C-3PO shuffled forward slightly, setting aside the datapad still clutched tightly in his hands, and resting one of the now-free appendages on BB-8’s upper dome (a gesture that, in all its simplicity, communicated an apology more than anything.) The smaller droid beeped a repetition of C-3PO’s own question, its head tilting into the direct contact of the protocol droid.

[[ A FEW DAYS. I TOOK THE LIBERTY OF CHECKING MASTER POE’S SCHEDULE. NO FLIGHTS FOR TWO WEEKS UNTIL LIEUTENANT BASTIAN RECOVERS FROM INJURIES PREVIOUSLY SUSTAINED. ]] R2-D2 angled his photoreceptor downwards, regarding the smaller astromech. [[ YOU WON’T BE MISSING OUT ON ANYTHING. ]]

BB-8 trilled something unintelligible, still noticeably disappointed, its head lowering – but a burst of static soon had it alert again, a frantic bleeping forming a question.

“Yes, we can run it right now. The faster you’re recovered, the faster you can get started on your duties once more. You can stay with Artoo for now, I’m sure he won’t mind,” C-3PO glanced from BB-8 to the astromech in question, who only offered a low, contented tone by means of reply, “you see? It'll be fine. We will inform Master Poe of your situation promptly.”

~*~

Back in the relatively-abandoned meeting room, a soft buzz and hiss accompanied the whirr of a storage port opening on R2-D2’s shell, from within ejected a tiny, nondescript datastick. Reaching forward, C-3PO grasped it gently, tilting it this way and that, observing it in the light. BB-8, at his side, whimpered its concern.

“Hurt you? Oh, goodness no! It’ll be no more than a regular data-upload—except, of course, for the promptly initiated low-power state, but I daresay R2-D2 has more assurance to give on that topic than I ever could.” C-3PO glanced up at R2-D2 as he awkwardly bent in front of the smaller droid (whose own photoreceptors were now firmly fixed on the blue-and-white droid too) and prepared to insert the datastick into BB-8’s primary data port – an Ollisteep-4D nanopin model, by the look of it. Not for the first time, C-3PO felt outdated and inadequate as he surveyed the younger droid’s hardware, but he quickly brushed the notion off.

[[ IT’S QUITE NICE, ACTUALLY. ]] This earned a glare – or, the closest equivalent C-3PO could give – but R2-D2 was undeterred, a slight trace of humour now lacing his binary speak. [[ IT’S JUST LIKE… DREAMING. YOU’VE READ ABOUT THAT, HAVEN’T YOU? ]] In reply, BB-8 gave an almost embarrassed squeak, head turning so R2-D2 couldn’t look it in the figurative eye, but R2-D2 merely barked a beeping laugh. [[ WE ALL HAVE. IT’S A STRANGE THING. IT’S A BIT LIKE THAT. YOU’LL BE OKAY. ]]

C-3PO nodded softly as he listened, then thumbed off the cover of BB-8’s port, and, with an affirmative nod from the orange-and-white astromech, plugged the datastick in. The effect was immediately – systems seized up, a mechanical screech emitted from the droid’s communications module, then, with a hard _thunk_ as the electromagnets keeping BB-8’s head aloft shut down and the part in question clamped to the spherical body, all fell silent. C-3PO had, at this point, jumped back, as if the smallish droid’s reaction had physically burned – or, rather, electrocuted – him. He swivelled his head from BB-8 to R2-D2, then back again, panic setting in. “Oh, we’ve killed him—we’ve gone and done it! We’ve broken him beyond repair—fried his circuits, wiped his memory core! He’ll be scrapped for sure!” Gold-plated hands came up to grasp at a similarly metallic skull, as C-3PO let out a long, low wail. “However can we tell Master Poe?!”

So lost was the protocol droid in his grief and distress, he did not notice his counterpart wheeling slowly towards the deactivated BB-unit, gently nudging it along the floor, fitting it snugly into his usual recharge spot, then turning to observe the protocol droid in the midst of a very dramatic breakdown. [[ ARE YOU DONE YET, OR DO YOU NEED A MOMENT LONGER? ]]

C-3PO’s head snapped up, his expressionless face belying the anger in his voice. “We’ve gone and shut down our— Master Poe’s—…” He faltered, then began anew, fresh fury lacing his words, “how can you be so _nonchalant_? Look at the poor thing! Oh, it’s all our fault! And I was really starting to like the little demon, too.” Burying his face in his hands, he let out another long wail.

[[ HE’S NOT DEAD, YOU OVER-DRAMATIC SCRAP OF METAL. HE’S ASLEEP. ]]

C-3PO paused in his distressed ministrations, raising his head once more. He turned to look at the inactive astromech, silent and still, but whose continued life was still indicated by the gentle, rhythmic pulse of light emitting from its photoprojector array. “Oh. I… uhm. I’ll go pass a message along to Master Poe, shall I?”

[[ YES. YES, I THINK YOU SHALL. ]]

C-3PO backed sheepishly out of the room, murmuring something vaguely towards the two ‘mechs, then, with a curt nod, he was off. R2-D2 watched him go with great amusement, and fondness. They were far from a notably functional little family, but, as he swivelled his photoreceptor between the vacant doorway and the sleeping droid, he figured it would simply have to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope that was sufficient. I apologise for the distinct lack of notable BB-8 interaction, but I'm probably most comfortable writing C-3PO and R2-D2 for now - at least until I get to see TFA again and get a stronger idea of how, exactly, BB-8 acts. 
> 
> I also apologise for any possible grammatical errors and such - I haven't fully proofread it, so feel free to point out any mistakes you see so they can be fixed. 
> 
> I hope it was enjoyable, nonetheless. Thank you for reading!


End file.
